The Bucky Series
by G L Barnes
Summary: An array of short stories, Bucky paired with many a character, but mostly you, the reader.


You watched.

Simply watched.

You didn't want to interrupt, this was a conversation for two friends. But you couldn't help but watch.

You knew Steve, and you knew how much he wanted to be part of the American Army. You knew how much Bucky worried for him. So you simply watched as Steve denied the chance to go dancing. You observed as James Buchanan Barnes, decked out in a crisp, new military uniform, talked with his best friend, Steve Rogers. They hugged briefly, before Bucky turned and started making his way back to you. He turned once more to salute Steve, and then back to you. He flashed a signature, Bucky Barnes smile at you.

"Steve's not coming?" You piped up, offering your own smile in return. You knew the answer, but decided to ask anyway, out of sheer politeness.

"Nah, he's off to go fight the good fight, sock a few Germans, return a hero," Bucky joked. You gave him a soft shove, coupled with an eye roll, before turning and letting his arm wrap around your shoulders, and the two of you began to walk. Your own arms crossed your chest and you hugged them close.

"Oh Bucky, I feel just awful for him, all he wants to do is be big and strong like you," you fretted, and Bucky gave a brief chuckle. "What?"

"Steve would get himself killed the first moments he stepped out onto the field, if not by the enemy then his no-good lungs!"

You scoffed and the two of you continued your walk. He had a pep in his step, and you couldn't help but adopt the same behaviour.

"I'll admit though, I'm glad he's not being accepted," Bucky admitted through a smile, not looking at you, but holding the tip of his hat and giving a nod and a bright white smile to passers-by, who all patted him on the back, smiled, thanked him for signing up to fight for the country. You looked up at him while he did so, from under the comforting hold of his arm, and frowned.

"Why's that?"

"Well, without me there to take care of him, who knows what'd happen to him? I've always been around to protect him. This…this isn't a couple of tramps galivanting around Brooklyn. This is war. I wouldn't be able to take care of him." Bucky's smile was now faded and his eyes pointed toward the floor. As you both walked along the footpath toward the bustling dancehall nearby, your own hand slipped down and made itself comfortable in his own, feeling his warmth through your soft glove.

"You're a sweet man, James," you assured him, as your steps slowed and you found yourself outside the dance hall. "Now, are we going to keep discussing this darn ugly war or are you, Mr Barnes, gonna take me dancing?" You asked, a smile hooking the corners of your lips, smug and playful. In perfect response, he took your hand, leant down and kissed the gentle fabric covering your hands.

"Little darlin', I would absolutely love to dance with you."

You danced. Danced the night away. Laughter rang from your lips, as well as his. The loud sounds of a generation at war, but pretending everything was fine. Young minds such as your own were not meant for the worries of war.

You danced with no signs of stopping, your feet sore from the exercise and your cheeks sore from Bucky's never ending humour. But during the slower of dances, when he held you in his arms, close, and rocked from side to side, you couldn't help yourself. You couldn't ignore the inevitable truths that lie within your thoughts.

"Don't go, Bucky," you whispered into the stiff fabric of his uniform. His symbol of damnation. He looked so good in it, but it was a curse, as well as a prize. He was respected by all, but at what price? You knew what happened to men who went to war. More often than not, they didn't come back.

"What's that, sweetheart?" He asked, pulling back with that bright smile and his charming pet names. You couldn't bring yourself to repeat your request. He was proud of himself. He was happy. While his face was too beautiful for the horrors of war, and his hands were made for better things that killing, he was proud. He would be protecting his country, his home, everything he knew and loved.

You couldn't dampen such a high spirit. Especially not his.

"Promise me and all the other swooning ladies you dance with you'll come back and dance with us again," you joked, letting his infectious smile spread.

"Darlin', when I come back, I'll be saving all my dancing for you and you alone."

"Goodnight, James," you bidded farewell, as he took your hand, now bare of glove, and pressed a kiss to your hand.

"Goodnight," he replied, leaving you at your front door. He turned, and was about to leave. His feet hit the ground and you listened as they did, biting your lip.

"Wait!," you called, as you rushed down the steps of your front porch, your heels clacking upon the concrete. His surprise was evident at your call, and only heightened when you took his face and pressed a kiss to his lips. But it was not unwelcome, as he took your hips and held you closer in the cold of the night. Somehow, it was what he needed as well. This whole time, all he'd done was pretend he was okay, pretend he was strong and unafraid. The way you kissed him though…it reminded him where he was headed, and so, for that singular moment, he let his fear overtake his pride. After all, he knew what happened to men who went to war as well.

"Be safe," you whispered looking into his bright eyes after pulling away.

"For you, darlin', anything," he replied, pecking your forehead with a gentle kiss and a smile, one that couldn't disguise the sadness in his eyes.

That would be the last time you would feel the soft grasp of James Buchanan Barnes.


End file.
